


Time Sensitive

by johnsarmylady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:32:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new quiz master is determined to 'play' with Sherlock and John</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Game Begins

**Author's Note:**

> There was a conversation between two Sherlock fanfic writers (or are we bloggers?) – and from the conversation came this idea……MapleleafCameo, this is especially for you!

Sherlock watched as John methodically stripped his gun down and cleaned it. He watched his hands as they moved with a sort of grace over the component parts, gently rubbing, cleaning, oiling, then putting it back together with smooth movements borne of long practice. Not once did his concentration waver.

“Treat your gun with the respect and it will always look after you” He had not missed his flatmate’s keen observation, he expected no less from the self-styled Consulting Detective.

“Do we attribute that quote to your Regimental Sergeant Major?”

John grinned. “Warrant Officer Lightson.  One of Sandhurst’s finest, scourge of the RAMC officer cadets.” His eyes went temporarily out of focus as if looking back to his time at Sandhurst. “If I’m honest, we were all terrified of him.  Fond of lightning inspections he was, and woe betide the man with even the tiniest speck of dirt in the mechanism! Y’know, we were all convinced he was born saying that.” He pushed the slide back into place, cocked and aimed it at away from himself and Sherlock and pulled the trigger. A smooth solid ‘click’ sounded satisfactorily in the otherwise quiet room.  Replacing the magazine he flicked the safety catch on and placed the weapon on the table beside him.  “What was the text?” It had pinged through 5 minutes ago or more, and Sherlock hadn’t taken his eyes from John’s routine – or so John had thought.

“Mycroft, he requested our presence.”

“Requested?” John’s eyebrows rose. “You’re telling me he actually _asked_ us?  I mean, instead of kidnapping us?”

Sherlock grinned. “You notice I haven’t replied John, which means he’ll send a car to – as you so eloquently put it – ‘kidnap’ us. He’ll get what he wants; we’ll save ourselves the cost of the cab fare!” With movements that put John in mind of a cat Sherlock uncurled himself from his chair and rose to his feet. “You have just five minutes to get ready.”

John also rose, using the rag he had cleaned the gun with to wipe any traces of gun oil from his hands before picking the weapon up.  As he moved past Sherlock the younger man grasped his arm.

“Take the gun, John.  If Mycroft needs our assistance badly enough for him to be in his office on a Saturday afternoon things may get a little….” He paused, quirking an eyebrow at his flatmate. “…. _interesting_!”

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“Why us Mycroft?  What’s wrong with using your own men?” Sherlock flopped down into an overstuffed wing chair and steepled his fingers under his nose. “Don’t you trust them?”

“Don’t be silly Sherlock, they spy on people for money – don’t they Mycroft?” John sat in a chair the twin of Sherlocks, his back straight, his feet planted squarely on the floor.  Only the pseudo innocent smile which graced his featured was at odds with his military bearing.

“When you two have finished your music hall double act….” Despite his neutral expression there was an unusual level of asperity in his normally cool cultured voice.

“He’s not enjoying our company Sherlock” John looked sadly across at his flatmate.

Sherlock grinned back at him before turning a cool stare on his brother.  “I’ll ask again – why us?” he caught the slight change in his brother’s bland countenance and sat up suddenly, gripping the arms of his chair. “No, not _us_ – **me**!”

Mycroft reached into a desk draw, pulled out an envelope and handed it to his brother. “It was addressed to me, delivered to my club an hour ago. He – and yes I am certain it’s a ‘he’ – has specifically asked for you.”

John watched as Sherlock scanned first the envelope, then its contents.

“You’re right, it is a man.  The writing speaks clearly of a private education – not Eton or Harrow though, maybe Kimbolton or Wells” he read the contents more carefully this time before handing it over to the man at his side.

“I’m sorry, what does this mean Sherlock?”

“A riddle – a clue John, obviously.  Someone is playing games with me”

“You hate riddles.”

Sherlock nodded, waving long fingers in the direction of the paper in John’s hand. “I’m less interested in the riddle than in his choice of materials.  Look at it John, notice anything odd about it?”

“Very thick paper – old fashioned style of writing – I’m no expert Sherlock but I think he’s using some sort of parchment and ink?”

“Right!  And then there’s the wording…”

“Taking you back in time…..” Mycroft recited the words he had memorised, before adding “Not recent history though.”

“No,” his brother agreed “the nib used is hand carved, possibly a quill or feather. He’s trying to make this a history puzzle.”

“Yes,” John interrupted his musings “But that bit about you seeing the face of London’s tall boy fall, it doesn’t make sense.”

“No.” Sherlock sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers against his lips, letting his eyes slip out of focus as he pondered the riddle.

“He travelled from the East to live with Stephen, but in the wee hours, if you fail to find me, you’ll see the face of London’s tall boy fall….” John read the line aloud, a frown creasing his brow.  He accepted the cup of tea that was placed in his hand by Anthea, quietly thanking her before turning his attention back to the paper.

“Oh!”

John and Mycroft looked expectantly at the now alert consulting detective.

“Oh, _that’s_ clever!” he sounded smug “More so, Mycroft, because if I’m right, the answer is right on your doorstep!”

The eyebrow rose. “How so?”

“I assume you have access to the keys to the Houses of Parliament? Or more importantly, the clock  tower?”

“Bloody hell Sherlock!” John exclaimed “London’s tall boy – Big Ben.”

Mycroft was already on the telephone to one of the many faceless minions he had at his beck and call.  As he finished his conversation he looked at his brother. “The custodian will meet us there – my car is….”

“Really Mycroft?” disbelief coloured John’s tone as he looked askance at the elder Holmes brother, “you work two minutes away from the Houses of Parliament and you want to _drive_ there?”

Mycroft’s face was a picture of distaste as he contemplated walking.  His self-preservation got the better of him, and while Sherlock and John set out at a smart pace along Whitehall to Parliament Square and Westminster Bridge, he chose to leave the building by the rear doors and travel to the clock tower in style!

John, Sherlock and the elderly custodian of the tower were waiting in the half light of the autumn evening when Mycroft finally arrived, and all three were looking up at the outside of the tower to the clock face overlooking the River Thames.

“Why back in time though Sherlock?” John was asking as Mycroft crossed the grass to join them.

“The date, John.  It’s 27th October.”

John still frowned.

“Clocks go back tonight!” The custodian piped up brightly, “well, 2.00am tomorrow to be precise.”

“And how is the clock put back here? Manually?” Sherlock asked, staring intently at the other man.

“Oh no, sir, those days are long gone!  There’s a mechanism now….”

“That’s got to be it then, we need to get up to that mechanism!” He turned again to the old man. “Where is it?”

“With all the other workings….” He struggled to open the door, looking intently at the lock.

“Problem?” Sherlock stepped up behind him and unceremoniously moved the man out of his way, his magnifying glass already in his hand. “Someone has tampered with this lock. I think there can be no doubt we were being directed here.”  He took the key from the custodian and with a little dexterous wiggling of metal the lock finally opened allowing the detective and the doctor to enter the stairwell.

“Not joining us, brother?” Sherlock smirked over his shoulder at the embodiment of the British Government.

“No, I’ll wait here and arrange any assistance you may need.”

Sherlock grinned and he and John started on their way up the 334 steps to the clock faces.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

“Jesus, Sherlock” John clung to the handrail on his left, his right hand resting on his knee as he stood with one foot on the last flight of stairs watching his flatmate bound up to the top “Will you just give me a minute to catch my breath!”

“No time.” Sherlock was already at the top of the stairs and moving towards the door that led to the clock mechanism.

“No time, he says!” John muttered to himself. “And us surrounded by clocks!”

“Don’t be facetious, John.” The door opened and Sherlock disappeared inside.

Following him in, John looked in wonder at the huge cogs, wheels and pistons that drove the clock and its bells. 

“This is no time to get lost in nostalgic study John,” Sherlock called across the room “five minutes from now the bells will strike the hour.  I think you’ll agree we don’t want to be in here when that happens.”

“Right!” John pulled himself together and looked around him. “What are we looking for exactly?”

“I would think some kind of explosive device.”

“Great! So we’re looking for a bomb at the top of a 300 feet high tower……what part of this venture is sensible?

“As you’re so fond of saying John….timing!  He said ‘back’ in time – nothing will happen until the clocks go back at 2am tomorrow morning.” Sherlock was crawling up and down the walkways, looking in all the possible hiding places hidden among the metal struts as well as under the working parts of the clock.  It gradually filtered into his overactive brain that John was just standing, looking at the clock face.  “John, if you’re just going to….”

“Sherlock, I think we need to get out of here.” He dragged his eyes away from the clock “Now, Sherlock, and down at least two flights of stairs.”

Reluctantly the consulting detective noted that they had less than a minute before the clock struck the hour, and as one the two men ran out of the door and down the stairs, stopping only when they had put several flights and a couple of corners between them and the bells that they could now hear winding upwards to begin their four line peal……………

 

……..As the last vibrations of the bells died, and Sherlock and John removed their hands from over their ears and looked at each other.

“That was painful!” John didn’t realise he was shouting, he could hardly hear himself think let alone speak.

_‘We need you to stop the chimes. – JW’_

“Mmm – tedious!” Sherlock agreed, equally loudly.  “We need to get back up there to search, although it’s going to be ridiculously slow if we have to run every 15 minutes…. What are you doing?”

_‘Pardon? – MH’_

_‘Don’t try to be funny Mycroft, it doesn’t suit you. – JW’_

 “Texting your brother.” This said a little quieter, as the effects of the noise wore off.  “Right, come on genius, let’s get back to it!”

_‘Oh, and stopping the clock might be good too – JW’_

_‘In hand already. – MH’_

_‘Thanks – JW’_

As they walked back into the room John grabbed Sherlocks arm and pulled him towards one of the 23 feet tall glass clock faces.

“Sherlock, you need to see what I was looking at earlier,” he pointed to the spindle in the centre of the clock face where the mechanism was attached that drove the hands round. “Can you see it, almost hidden….”

Sherlock moved as close as he could to the glass and saw just under the lead frames that held it in place a thin wire leading to the outer lead ring, and pushed in around the outer ring of the face was plastic explosive.  Grey and putty like, and outlining the bottom half of the back-lit national landmark.  His eyes followed the wire back to the centre, where a small switch was attached to the spindle itself.

“Some kind of firing switch,” John observed standing close to his shoulder “I imagine it’s rigged to go as the hour hand swings back at 2am.”

“I believe you’re right John.” Sherlock pulled his phone out and dialled.

“Brother dear?” the phone was answered with swift efficiency

“Mycroft, you might want to call in the bomb squad” Sherlock was walking down the stairs as he spoke, John following close behind. “Oh, and I suggest they bring some kind of platform or scaffolding with them.” And he grinned as he cut the connection.

 


	2. Where There's Smoke

They finally arrived back at the Baker Street flat shortly before midnight.  John headed straight to the kitchen, while Sherlock threw himself (literally) onto the couch and adopted what his flatmate secretly called ‘the pose’, fingers steepled against his lips, eyes closed.

“Our quiz master’s knowledge is at fault. St Stephen’s tower is actually over the main public entrance.”

John placed a mug of tea on the coffee table and retreated to his chair, cradling his own mug in fingers still chilled by the October night air. Knowing there was more to come he sat patiently, trying to ignore the mind-numbing tiredness that threatened to overtake him.

“He’s introducing himself; this is his way of getting my attention.”

John’s eyes closed momentarily and he repressed a shudder. “Remind you of anyone?”

“It hadn’t escaped my notice.” The grey eyes flicked open and looked across at his friend.  “He’s dead, John, has been for ages.”

“Yeah.”

For a while, the silence hung between them like Banquo’s ghost, each man lost in his own thoughts. At last with a sigh John finished his drink and rose to his feet.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.  Do yourself a favour and get some sleep.” He smiled fondly down at his flatmate. “If our quiz master is planning more of these little puzzles you’re going to need it.”

“Sleeping’s boring!” came the response, but Sherlocks lips twitched in a half smile as he pictured the rolling eyes that would greet that particular statement! He settled further into the cushions on the couch and he returned to his thoughts…….

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At some point during the night Sherlock had finally fallen asleep.  Pausing on his way to the kitchen John couldn’t help but grin at the sight of his lanky flatmate, a sprawling tangle of limbs, cushions and shock blanket (filched from a crime scene, currently living over the back of the couch), his face wiped of its usual arrogance.  Somehow he was certain this was only a brief hiatus, and whoever was vying for the detective’s attention this time would soon make his presence felt, and John felt Sherlock should be allowed to recharge his batteries while he had the chance.

Trying to be as quiet as possible he moved into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Knowing he’d be unlikely to get Sherlock to eat much more than a slice of toast now that this case had presented itself he regretfully ignored the makings of a full English breakfast that he had bought yesterday morning. His planned Sunday treat of cooked breakfast, tea and toast wouldn’t be quite the same if he was cooking it only for himself only to have to eat it under the disdainful gaze of his I-must-starve-in-order-to-think friend.

“If you cook it, I’ll eat it.”

Sherlock’s voice made John jump and he spun round, catching his arm painfully on the fridge door.

“Jesus Sherlock, do you have to …… _what_ did you say?”

“Are you still suffering the after effects of yesterday’s bells?  Your hearing seems a bit off.”

“Yeah, bloody funny mate!” John rubbed at his arm. “Actually, I was just thinking I must still be in bed asleep and dreaming!  Did you say you’d like a cooked breakfast?”

“I know how much you’ve been looking forward to this, and I know that although you will cook just for yourself you prefer to cook for both of us if only because it makes it worth the effort.  The amount of provisions purchased yesterday tell me that not only have you been thinking about this for a while but that it had always been your intention to – what was it again – feed me up? Yes, that’s it I think...”

At this point John couldn’t hold his laughter in any longer, Sherlocks deductions, as usual, were totally correct.

“Show off!” he chuckled.

Sherlock frowned as if thinking about it for a moment or two, then –

“Hungry show off actually John.  Set to now – I need breakfast!”

 

An hour later, well fed and with the breakfast things washed up and put away the two men sat in front of the roaring fire that Sherlock had lit while John cooked. 

“Why?”

“John?”

“Why the puzzle?  Why you?” he looked across at the pale countenance of his friend and saw a dramatic look of shock spread across his features – still a show off! “Okay, we know why you – and he obviously thinks he’s clever enough to play this game with you, but apart from causing damage to a nineteenth century national treasure what was the point?  There was only enough explosive to blow the clock face out.”

“Hmmm. And quite an elaborate firing mechanism for a pyrotechnic show.” The younger man stared unseeing into the flames. “This was a warning, a shot across our bows, and I think his next move may be more deadly!”

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It was always a Sunday afternoon treat for Jan Freeman and her twin daughters Steph and Kath to visit her mother for tea, but this Sunday was to change all that.  As they pulled up outside the house Jan was surprised to see the door was ajar, and lights were on all over the house.  Telling her daughters to stay in the car she carefully pushed the door open…..

The house was empty.  Jan ran from room to room calling for her mother, panic increasing with each moment that passed.  Finally as she entered the kitchen she stopped dead.  Fear and horror spread through her as she stared at the large kitchen table.    

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The journey to Greenwich in Greg Lestrades unmarked police car went significantly quicker than it would have done in a cab.  Sherlock had at first declined to travel in a police car until Greg had explained to him what exactly had been found on the kitchen table.

“I take it no-one will be allowed to touch it until we get there?”

“No,” Greg negotiated an awkward junction before continuing “the local Inspector called me as soon as they read the note then sealed off the house.  The victim, Mrs Howard, is well known and liked locally. No one knows why this should have happened to her. ”

“What about the daughter and grandchildren, where are they now?”

“With a neighbour John.  They have a Family Liaison Officer with her, and they’ve called in the police doctor to check her over and treat her for shock.”

“I’ll need you to talk to her John, see what’s special about the mother.”

John nodded, knowing he was better equipped than his friend to deal with crying relatives.

A young police officer moved the blue and white tape aside to let the car through, and before Lestrade had brought the car to complete halt Sherlock was out and striding into the house.  John and Greg scrambled out and hurried after him.

Sherlock stood in the kitchen doorway, his sharp eyes moving rapidly around the room taking in all available data, before approaching the kitchen table. John appeared at his shoulder and the pair looked at the message.  A home baked loaf of bread stood in the middle of the table, a note pinned to it with a large carving knife – ‘ **GET SHERLOCK HOLMES’**.

“This it?”

“Yes Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock looked up at the speaker. “And you are?”

“Inspector Brooker sir,” the officer was about the same age as Lestrade. 

Sherlock turned to catch John’s eye, nodding towards the still open door.

John walked through the neighbour’s door following muted the sounds of sobbing to the cosy lounge where a petite brunette sat red eyed, her arms around two young girls.

“Mrs Freeman?” he spoke softly, but his words sounded loud in the oppressed atmosphere of the room. 

“Yes?”

“My name’s John Watson, I’m here with Sherlock Holmes.  Can we talk?”

Jan Freeman gave her daughters a brief hug and asked them to go with the police officer, then looked expectantly up at the newcomer. John smiled reassuringly and indicated the seat recently vacated by one of her daughters.

“May I?”

She nodded.

“We need to know why your mother has been taken,” he explained as gently as he could, “is there anything you can tell me, anything at all that may help us.  I assume the note in the kitchen was the only clue?”

“Yes,” her voice was soft and pleasant despite “but I don’t think there is anything I can tell you that will help. Mum’s lived in this street since she and dad got married, wouldn’t dream of moving away when dad died suddenly a few years ago.  She does volunteer work at the local charity shop.” She paused, frowning as she tried to think.

“What about friends? Has she made any new friends lately, or mentioned any strangers taking an interest?”

Jan Freeman shook her head, tears starting once more to roll down her pale cheeks.   After the slightest of hesitations John moved closer to her and put his arm around her shoulders, holding her as the tears flowed in earnest, silent sobs wracking her body, her face turned into his shoulder and her fingers clutching the front of his jacket.

Patiently waiting for the storm to abate, John looked towards the door where Sherlock now stood, an eyebrow raised in silent enquiry. The doctor shook his head almost imperceptibly, and the consulting detective moved away again.

Swallowing hard and making a visible effort to pull herself together Mrs Freeman sat up a little straighter.

“She was just looking forward to the Lord Mayor’s Show next month, she’d been invited to the Royal Courts of Justice to hear the new Mayor swearing allegiance before joining the selected commoners invited to the luncheon afterwards.”

John looked puzzled. “I wasn’t aware they invited commoners to the ceremony.”

A wistful smile crossed the tearstained features.

“Mum spent all her working life in the kitchens at the Mansion House…..”

“The Lord Mayor’s official residence?”

 She nodded.  “I used to be allowed to go there in the school holidays if there was nothing important going on.  Mum loved working there! Anyway, they invited her as a former employee.”

John waited but no more information was forthcoming. Thanking her and promising that they would do everything possible to get her mother back safely he excused himself, leaving to join Greg and Sherlock outside.

As they journeyed back towards central London John listened to Sherlocks lack of findings in the house, and in turn told of his less than successful interview with the missing woman’s daughter. When he got to the part about the invitation to the Lord Mayor’s show Sherlock suddenly sat up straighter.

“That’s interesting, unusual. Is it? Why is it?” he pulled out his mobile.

_‘How do they choose attendees for the Lord Mayor’s ceremonies? – SH’_ In response his phone rang.

“That was quick brother mine!”

“I was about to ring you anyway,” Mycroft’s voice could be heard quite clearly by all in the confines of the car.  “I haven’t got an answer yet to your question, but what I do have is another riddle.  Kindly ask the inspector to bring you to the Diogenes Club.” And the line went dead.

Sherlock and John shared a look of concern.

“It’s him again.”

“Obviously John.  Lestrade, you know where….”

“Yeah.” Greg responded “Been there.”  He caught in the rear view mirror the younger man’s look of surprise. “I was ‘invited’ there after your little swan dive off Bart’s.  To tell the truth I was more concerned with facing your brother’s anger than looking round some fancy gentleman’s club!”

Sherlock smirked.

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There was something to be said for the institution of gentleman’s clubs that no matter what the crisis facing the Country, or indeed the world at large, life continued within at the same pace that had been set back in the days of the Empire.  John thought, not for the first time as he walked through the silent hallways, that some of its inhabitants looked as if they were remnants of that great era of British history.

“Some of them probably are.”

“I wish you wouldn’t read my mind!  It’s disconcerting!” John whispered.  Sherlock just smiled.

Greg Lestrade was still trying to work out what he’d missed when they entered Mycroft’s rooms.  The room had been laid out to accommodate the three guests, and a choice of tea or spirits stood on the table as well as a plate of cakes.  Sherlock eyes the spread before meeting his brother’s eyes.

“How’s the diet?”

“ _Fine!_ ” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Do be seated gentlemen, Sherlock.” His deliberate distinction between his brother and the others did not go unnoticed, but the younger Holmes refused to rise to the bait.

They waited until the club’s butler had served them with drinks of their choice, scotch for the Holmes brothers while both Greg and John chose tea.  As the door closed quietly Sherlock held out his hand.  Mycroft removed an envelope from an inner pocket.

“Soon the city will once more be alight with the warmth of times past. And as the clock strikes the single hour you, Mr Holmes, will get your just desserts.” Sherlock read aloud before he passed the letter to John.

“Er.... same paper, same ink I’m guessing, but the rest…”

“Yes, and the same hand cut nib.” Sherlock frowned at the envelope still in his hands. “What’s the connection?”

“Sorry, what?”

“The connection, John, between this and the kidnapped grandmother.”

“You’re sure there is one brother?” Mycroft watched as the envelope was over and examined from all angles.

“Undoubtedly, although I have yet to work out what it is exactly.  The paper that the kidnapper’s message was written on is identical to this, the pen and the ink used the same.”

“What about that bit about the clock?” Greg asked. “Not something to do with Big Ben again?”

“No,” Sherlock stood up and walked to the window “but this is another time sensitive puzzle.  Our quizmaster has given us a time frame to work in. If I haven’t solved it by 1 am tomorrow morning I believe we won’t find our kidnap victim alive.”

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Frustrated Sherlock stalked out of the club.  John and the Detective Inspector hurried out behind him having offered apologies to their host.

“What can I do?” Greg asked as they caught up to him.  Sherlock pinned him with a glare, his quicksilver eyes shining in the glow of the street lights.

“The missing woman.  You need to find out who knew she worked at the Mansion House.  You heard what Mycroft’s people said, that invitation was just a way to gain her confidence, so someone – our quiz master – has spent a considerable amount of time setting this up. I need data.”

Greg nodded and unlocked his car. “Can I drop you anywhere?”

John glanced up at his flatmate who was looking distractedly up and down the street.  When no answer was forthcoming he looked back at the police officer.

“No thanks, Greg. Better get onto that information.  We’ll find a cab.”

“Come on, John!” Sherlock turned on his heel and strode away from the two men still standing at the curb.  John shrugged and gave Greg a ‘what can you do with him?’ look before jogging away in Sherlocks wake.

For a while they walked in silence, Sherlock deep in thought, John happy to leave him to his ponderings.  The doctor had always loved the dark evening streets of London, and his eyes wandered over the facades of the Regency buildings.  He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice when his friend stopped suddenly, and he walked straight into him. Sherlock seemed not to notice the collision, he just stared up and down the road.

“We need a cab.” He said, suddenly darting out between two cars and flagging one down.  John stared at him in amazement. How did he do that?

“Any ideas yet?” John broke the silence as they sped towards Baker Street.  Sherlock just shook his head and continued to stare out of the window.   When they reached home the younger man disappeared into the flat, leaving John to pay the fare, and as he made his way finally into the flat Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

“Sherlock?” no response. “Sherlock?” he walked through to stand outside his friend’s bedroom door. “You alright?”

A grunt of affirmation was the only sound, so he returned to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich.  By the time it was made Sherlock had returned to the living room and was slumped in his chair, a book clutched in his hand.

“What’s that?”

“A Brief History of London.  Our quiz master is obviously fond of history, so it makes sense to start with that.”

“What do you want me to do?”

The book landed in John’s lap, almost knocking the sandwich onto the floor, and he scrabbled about trying to catch both items.

“Read while I think.”

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John groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes were tired and his whole body stiff from sitting in the same place for two and a half hours. Greg’s enquiries had drawn a blank, and his reading had had the same result so far. Putting the book on the table at his elbow he pushed himself to his feet and wandered through to the kitchen, returning 10 minutes later with tea for them both. 

Sherlock neither opened his eyes nor acknowledged the mug of tea placed beside him, he was deep in thought.

Taking a sip of his tea John picked the book up again and found himself staring at a word. A word that leapt out at him with blinding clarity.

“Sherlock…..Sherlock!” he shouted, leaning across and shaking his friend.

Sherlocks head jerked up and he fixed his gaze on his friend.

“What is it?”

“Pudding Lane.”

Sherlocks lips moved, silently repeating the word, then he smiled at John.

“Excellent John! Pudding Lane!  I’d made the connection to the Great Fire of London, but you are right in your assumption that the reference to desserts leads us to where it all began!” as he spoke he was on his feet and reaching for his coat.  “Come along John, we have less than two hours to find Mrs Howard.”

Despite it being late on a Sunday evening there were still a number of cabs cruising for business, and within minutes they were on their way to the City.  Sherlock dialled his brother’s number, and it was answered almost immediately.

“Mycroft, we know where she is, more or less.” He explained. “The riddle refers to the Great Fire of London – we’re on our way to Pudding Lane.”

“What do you need from me?” 

“Unfortunately the Lane has changed dramatically since 1665, so even if we knew the exact address of the baker’s house we would still be no closer to finding her. I need you to arrange for the London Fire Brigade to be in attendance. It’s very likely the fire will start before we can get to her.”

“I’ll ensure they are on hand.” And with that Mycroft was gone.

John looked out of the window as they turned into Pudding Lane.  The once crowded close packed houses had long since been replaced by glass and steel monuments to commerce, and once they were out on the street he voiced his concerns.

“There are a lot of buildings to check Sherlock.”

“We can start by working our way along – I’ll take this side of the road, you start over there.” He pointed to the building opposite.  “Check every door for signs of tampering.”

From building to building they moved, looking closely at door locks and pushing at door handles. In the distance they heard Big Ben strike the three quarters.  Fifteen minutes. 

Suddenly Sherlock gave a shout.  He was kneeling in front of an empty office block, carefully trying to pick the lock.  John ran to join him, helping to illuminate the lock with his torch.

“There are many scratches around the lock.” As he worked Sherlock explained why he was certain this was the right building. “They are recent – very recent.  The dust in the air hasn’t had time to infiltrate.”

With his free hand John pulled out his phone and sent a text to Mycroft to direct the Fire Brigade, and then to Greg. They may need back up.

Once in the building they set about stealthily searching through the rooms.  There were ten floors but this time they didn’t split up, choosing instead to each take a side of the building moving together floor by floor.

It was as they approached the third floor that they heard it, the sound of children singing. Dashing up the remaining stairs they moved as one towards the end office where sound of singing was getting louder.  Bursting through the door they saw Mrs Howard, bound to a chair and gagged.  In the corner of the room was a tape recorder playing children singing – the old nursery rhyme ‘London’s Burning’ and next to it what was an obvious incendiary device with a timer attached.

John moved swiftly to the frightened woman. Reaching into his pocket he withdrew his pocket knife and wasted no time in cutting through her bonds.  Sherlock had given the device a cursory examination and decided there was nothing to be done with it.  Holding open the door he called out.

“Move John!  It’s set to go in two minutes!”

Mrs Howard tried to stand up but was too numb from being too long tied to the chair. John picked her up and carried her out of the room, and all three hurried down the stairs.  In the distance they could hear the sirens of the emergency services, and they had barely made it to the ground floor when the sound of an explosion reached their ears, and they dashed out of the building just as the first of the fire engines arrived.

John handed his burden over to the ambulance crew that followed the fire crew, and stood with his flatmate looking up at the flames shooting out of the gaping hole that was once a picture window.  Moments later they were joined by Greg, and the three stood in companionable silence, hands in pockets, staring upwards, until John observed dryly

“Hell of a way to spend a Sunday evening.”

  

 

 

 

 

 


	3. The Axe Man Cometh.....

“When did you work out the connection?” They were travelling back to Baker Street, leaving the police and fire crews to deal with the aftermath of the explosion. 

“Sorry? Oh, yes, once I knew we were being directed to the events of 1665.”

“Right, I get it….no I don’t.  What did I miss?”

Sherlock though a moment, then smiled. “Actually John, it wasn’t that you missed something, more that I had directed you away from it.”  The puzzled looked remained on Johns face so Sherlock elaborated, “I sent you to talk to the daughter yet what I found in the victims house, and dismissed as being unimportant, was all the equipment required by a good baker.  I’m certain that if we look into her time working at the Mansion House we’ll find that Mrs Howard’s speciality was bread making.”

“Hmmm. Get it now.”

“I admit that I got a little side-tracked with the reference to desserts, although I’m surprised Mycroft didn’t see it!”  For a second they looked at each other, then exploded into giggles.  They were still chuckling as they stumbled tiredly out of the vehicle and made their way into the flat.

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Sherlock was becoming more fractious by the minute.  It had been three days since the quiz master had set them the fire puzzle and the waiting was becoming a bore.  He was certain they hadn’t heard the last of him, so he had spent the intervening time reading through the history of London that he had inflicted on John on Sunday and trawling the internet for possible clues as to the next puzzle. Now he was at a loss.  He moped around, and argued every little thing until eventually his much tried flatmate had fled, grabbing his black jacket, wallet and mobile and shutting the door firmly behind him!

For almost half an hour Sherlock stared at the door, willing the doctor to return, before reluctantly picking up his phone.

_‘Where are you? – SH’_

No response.  Sherlock stared at the screen, then rattled off another text, this time to Lestrade.

_‘Any more forensic from the Pudding Lane bomb? – SH’_

_‘You had it all Monday. – GL’_

Sherlock hissed through his teeth in frustration.  He needed to talk to someone.  With no sign of John’s imminent return he looked at the mantelpiece, but the skull had taken a leave of absence.

“Mrs Hudson!” 

Silence.  He scowled at the floor as if to see through to their landlady’s flat to see what was preventing her from answering. 

Moments later his phoned pinged. He snatched it up and opened the message.

_‘Where’s John? He’s not answering my texts – GL’_

Sherlock stared at the words on the screen.  Surely John wouldn’t be avoiding Lestrade? That didn’t make sense.

_‘Went out – SH’_

_‘What did you do to him? – GL’_

The sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted Sherlocks pithy response and he stared hard at the door.  It wasn’t John, the step was all wrong.  Nor was it Mycroft. 

A woman’s footstep, yes definitely a woman. Upset, worried…..his musings were abruptly halted by a thundering on the door, and a plaintive voice calling out.

“John Watson!  I know you’re in there you bastard – open the fucking door!”

It didn’t sound like his flatmate’s usual line in girlfriend, they tended to just get angry and leave, not scream and swear on his doorstep.  Sherlock was curious.  As he walked towards the door she hammered on it again.

“Come out you bloody coward!”

He opened the door and stared down at the bedraggled woman who stared belligerently back at him.

“Who are you?” she sniffed, wiping her running nose on the sleeve of her coat. “I know who you are! You’re his posh-boy flatmate!  Where’s John?”

A brief look was all that Sherlock had needed to know that he was face to face with John’s sister Harry.  The family resemblance would have been remarkable were it not for the ravages of years of drinking that had left her face blotchy with the tell-tale spider veins visible even under her make-up.

“Harry Watson, I presume?” he kept his face wiped clean of expression.

Harry stared momentarily then tried to push past him into the flat, but Sherlock was completely blocking the doorway.

“How did you get in Harry?”

She stopped pushing and stepped down a couple of steps, pointing towards the hallway.  “The old biddy downstairs let me in – I told her I was here to see John.”  Sulkily she looked back at him. “Let me in – I want to see that bloody useless brother of mine!”

“He’s not here. He left.” Sherlock deliberately chose not to elaborate on that statement, leaving it to Harry to come to whatever conclusion she cared to.

“Left?  Where’s he gone?”

“I’m afraid I have absolutely no idea.” Again it was no lie.  He calmly watched as she sniffed and scrubbed at her eyes, smudging mascara and eye-shadow as she did so.

“He arranged an appointment for me with a doctor; I wanted him to come with me.” She wailed, her distress real even if her tears were three parts vodka, “I would’ve phoned but I forgot my mobile.”

“What time is your appointment?”

She looked at her watched, blinking rapidly, trying to clear her fuzzy vision. “Four thirty, at St Thomas’ Hospital.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, less than an hour. St Thomas’ Hospital was opposite the Houses of Parliament, easily a half hour cab ride at this time of day, possibly more if the traffic was heavy.  At this rate she wouldn’t make it in time. With a slight shake of his head he grasped her arm and started to walk her down the stairs.

“Lemme go!” She shrieked “What are you doing?”

“I’m putting you into a cab and sending you to the hospital.  If your idiot brother has taken the trouble to make you an appointment the least you could do is keep it!”

Hailing a cab he thrust her into the back seat then leaned in through the window and spoke to the driver.

“Take her to St Thomas’ Hospital, outpatient’s entrance.  Make sure she goes in.” He handed over two twenty pound notes “Keep the change.”

Standing back from the curb he watched the vehicle pull away, his last glimpse of his flatmates sister was her tear-streaked face staring dolefully out of the back window.

Returning to the flat he picked up his phone, his response to Lestrade forgotten as he tried again to reach John.

_‘John, when are you coming back? – SH’_

He waited, fidgeting with impatience.  What the hell was John playing at, sulking like this?  What if they’d got another riddle?  Didn’t he know the quiz master could contact them at any time?

Just as he was on the verge of giving in and ringing his brother for help he heard the familiar tread on the stair, and knew his friend had returned. He sat down in his chair and waited.

John walked through the door and hung his jacket on the hook on the living room door before walking through to the kitchen. Sherlock followed him with his eyes.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee for me. Black, two sugars.”

Carrying the two mugs in one hand and a plate of digestive biscuits in the other John wandered through from the kitchen and carefully placed them on the table before taking his usual seat.

“Alright then?” he asked, looking at Sherlock. “All quiet still?”

“Where did you go?” Sherlock answered the question with one of his own. “We were trying to get hold of you.”

John sipped his tea and picked up a biscuit.

“We?” he pulled out his phone and looked at it. His face registered surprise as he noticed he had missed three texts from Lestrade inviting him for a drink later this evening as well as the two from his flatmate.

“So?  Where were you?”

John shrugged. “I went to Madame Tussauds.  It was packed with kids, apparently it’s half term and nearly all the mothers in London decided it would make a nice Halloween treat to go and stare at wax models of murderers.  It was quite noisy though so I must have just missed the text alerts.” As he spoke John sent a quick text to Greg. 

“Your sister should be arriving about now for her appointment.”

“What?” John looked up from his phone distractedly at first, then his gaze sharpened. “What appointment?”

“The appointment you made for her to see someone at St Thomas’ Hospital. I assume you’re making another futile attempt to get her to dry out.”

John’s mug hit the table hard as he leaned towards the younger man.

“What. Appointment. Sherlock?  I’ve not seen, spoken to or make contact with my sister in any way since the summer, when she told me in no uncertain terms to stop interfering with her life.”  Standing up he walked to the desk and dug around for the telephone directory. Flicking through he found the number he needed and dialled, walking through to the kitchen to afford himself a degree of privacy as he made the call.

Sherlock knew by the expression on his friends face exactly what question had been asked, and the answer he had received.  His concern was obvious as he returned to his chair.

“How did you know about the appointment?”

“She came here wanting you to accompany her.”

A slight smile lightened his features. “Trust Harry to almost scupper his plans.” His smile faded and he let his head drop into his hands. “Shit, I should have been here!”

“He set her up, that much is obvious - the game has just become personal.” Sherlock observed as he picked up his phone and finally made that call to his brother.

“Have you had a communication from our friend?” No ‘hello brother’ this time, Sherlock had no time for niceties.

“You will just have to be patient Sherlock,” his older brother responded sounding bored. “I told you yesterday I would let you know as soon as he gets in touch.”

“Then you are one step behind him, Mycroft. I think you’ll find if you look at the CCTV from St Thomas’ outpatients that he’s kidnapped John’s sister.”

In the background he could hear orders being snapped out to various faceless minions on the other end of Mycroft’s intercom. He waited.

“How is John?”

“How do you think Mycroft?  He’s worried about his sister!”

“Then I suggest you both join me at my office.  By the time you get here I will have the CCTV footage and very likely the next letter.”

Sherlock glanced at his flatmate who responded with a simple nod.  His answer to his brother was a simple “Alright.” as he ended the call.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Anthea met them at the reception and escorted them straight to Mycroft’s office where they were surprised to find Greg Lestrade waiting for them.

“Your brother thought it might be a good idea to include me in your discussions,” Greg pre-empted Sherlocks scathing comment. “considering who’s involved and how close it was last time.”

“Mycroft.  We can deal with this….”

“Actually Sherlock,” John interrupted the tirade “I’m quite happy for Greg to be involved. Regardless of our personal relationship I just want my sister back in one piece.”

“As do we all” Mycroft reassured the doctor, taking the most recent letter from his desk drawer and sliding it unopened across the desk to his brother. “It arrived just after we spoke”

 “Feast your eyes upon my next offering, Mr Holmes.  As has happened many times through the ages, tomorrow will see the just removal of a Royal pain and all will rejoice in Whitehall.  Cometh the hour, cometh the Axe Man”

John closed his eyes to shut out the vision of his sister at the mercy of this madman.

“But what does it mean Sherlock?”

“It means, Lestrade, that if we don’t find out which historical event this relates to, then ‘cometh the hour’ as our quiz master says Harry is likely to fall victim to the Axe Man.”

 Even Mycroft looked a little uncomfortable at Sherlocks blunt explanation. His eyes flicked in Johns direction but the doctor hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Any thoughts John?”

John looked at the others, a slight frown dinting his brow.

“Henry Vlll?  Didn’t he bring in a specialist to behead Anne Boleyn?”

“He practiced the French method of beheading” Sherlock informed him “Used a sword.”

“Oh.”  He retreated back into thought. 

 “Although you may be on the right track John.” He waited until he had his friend’s full attention.  “Anne Boleyn wasn’t the only one beheaded; Catherine Howard faced the axe for adultery.”

“Axe? You’re sure?”

Reaching into his coat pocket he pulled out the history book and handed it across.

“Almost certain,” he smiled slightly.  “Mycroft – I need a computer and sight of those CCTV images!”

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An hour later they were examining yet another series of CCTV generated photographs.  The car that had so obviously been waiting for Harry Watson had been spotted in Southwark, Borough Market, Battersea, Whitechapel and Tower Hill, and each time the cameras had identified three people in the car. 

Greg had arranged traffic police to pick up the car and trail it, alongside an elite team of Mycroft’s people.  The car seemed to be driving randomly around, and every now and then would slow right down or speed off through changing traffic lights.

When John had casually mentioned that the car driver was almost deliberately drawing attention to himself as if he was taunting them, Mycroft and Lestrade both looked as if someone had suddenly hit them over the head with an unexpected truth, and Mycroft immediately ordered the car to be intercepted.   

The three occupants, when they were brought to the anonymous interview room under the Whitehall offices, knew nothing about the Harry or her kidnapper.  They had been offered the opportunity to legally joy-ride in a fancy car and all they had to do was collect the car from the docklands area and drive it around.  Tellingly they said they had a very small time frame in which to pick the car up.  They could arrive too early, but had to be away within five minutes of the appointed collection time.  Also, the man who paid them to take the car was insistent that while they should be sure to drive within the law they were speed up and slow down and attract attention to the car.

While Greg questioned the joy-riders the Holmes brothers and John watched on a television screen in a room next to Mycroft’s office.  

“The kidnapper obviously had another car waiting at the docks, the only question is did he leave before his hired joy-riders or once he was sure our attention was back on the car?”

Mycroft pressed a button on the intercom, ordering more detailed footage from the area where the exchange had happened and also a vehicle to be ready to take Mr Holmes’ brother and Dr Watson out to that same area.

John sat in the back of the car, the book still in his hands, a torch illuminating the pages. “Not only were you right about Catherine Howard being beheaded by axe, did you know that according to your book we now have a time-frame? She was taken out to Tower Green just before 9 am.”

Sherlock nodded, then realised John was still staring at the book.

“It is the best lead we have so far.  Once we have finished at the docks we are to meet Lestrade and as many men as he and Mycroft can muster between them at the Tower of London. If the connection is a Royal execution then that is the obvious place to start.”

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There was little of note at the dockland warehouse where the switch had taken place, no usable tyre tracks or footprints left by the kidnappers, in fact they may have considered that they were in the wrong place were it not for the dried blood splatters across the floor.  Sherlock and John knelt to get a closer look.

“Blood splatter like that means she was quite probably backhanded for resisting or trying to get away” Sherlock observed, half an eye on his flatmate’s reaction.  He needn’t have worried.  John was in full ‘soldier’ mode, putting personal consideration aside and concentrating on the job in hand. 

“Yeah, my sister has a knack of pissing people off!” the soldier said with a dry laugh.

“No point in collecting this – even if we could get a usable sample it would take days to get a confirmation of DNA.  It’s too much of a coincidence for blood this fresh to be anything other than as a consequence of this case” Sherlock tried to be careful how he vocalised the case, and could see by John’s eyes that he was grateful for that consideration. “We’ll do better to move on to the Tower – by now Mycroft will have arranged for them to let us in and have access to all areas, well almost all”

“Yeah, I think they’ll insist you leave the Crown Jewels alone!  They’ve had enough of nutty geniuses playing with the Queen’s dressing up box”

They slid into the rear seats of the car and were soon alighting again, this time just inside the gates of the Tower of London.

John glanced around the twenty or more people that were awaiting their arrival. Four of them were Mycroft’s security staff, another dozen were the Tower’s own Beefeaters, the rest were from the Yard.  Sally Donovan walked over to him as he closed the car door and put a hand on his arm.

“John, I’m so sorry…” her voice and eyes were sincere.

“Yeah, thanks Sally.”

“We’ll find her…..” she might have said more, but Sherlock had walked around from the other side of the car and was sneering down at her.

John noticed that everyone seemed to be looking at him, and he was unsure whether it was because they were feeling sorry for him as Sally was, or if they were expecting him to organise the search. Catching the eye of the most senior looking of the Towers officers he beckoned the man over.

“It seems to me your officers know the Tower better than any of us, I would suggest we split into pairs, each with one of your officers. Do you have some kind of map we can use to assign search areas?”

Gesturing to the little office the man led John towards the door.  Hesitating momentarily the doctor turned to Lestrade.

“Greg, organise them into pairs, one Beefeater with one of your guys or one of Mycroft’s.” And he ducked into the stone building.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

The search took almost all night. They looked into every room, every nook and cranny, but there was no sign of Harry or of the mysterious quiz master.  The sun was barely rising as they finally regrouped in front of the office, tired and frustrated at their lack of success.

They knew that this was not the end of the puzzle, and that the Tower Officers and staff would have to be especially vigilant to prevent a murder on their historic green.  A swift call to Mycroft’s office produced a number of photographs of John’s sister that could be distributed to enable her to be spotted if the kidnapper was foolish enough to try to bring her into the Tower when the gates opened to the public.  John was not happy, but unfortunately there was little else to be done. Sherlock bullied him and Greg back into Mycroft’s car and they travelled in silence back to the office in Whitehall.

Mycroft looked as well turned out and alert as ever, and not for the first time John wondered what it was about the Holmes brothers that allowed them to keep going without sleep indefatigable and unimpaired.  Now that the search was over so John’s own stamina levels had dropped through the floor and he felt ready to drop.

Sitting in Mycroft’s office the four men sat mulling over the riddle again.  John stared at the riddle, trying vainly to make some sort of sense of the words and Greg sat reading over his shoulder, at the same time massaging his temples to try to stave off the impending headache he could feel building up behind his eyes.  The British Government and his brother were both sitting, almost identical bookends, fingers steepled against pursed lips and eyes closed.

Suddenly Sherlock sat up straighter and his eyes opened sharply. “Why would Whitehall rejoice?”

“What?”

“What is it about this execution that would cause Whitehall to rejoice?”

“Whitehall only became a seat of power after the Civil War.” Mycroft informed them.  “Before that the power sat squarely with the King.”

“That’s it!” Sherlock jumped up and began to pace furiously.  “The other royal execution - Charles the first!

“But…” John stared at his friend.

“We missed it John.  He used the word ‘Feast’.  I wondered about it when we first read it but thought he was just using flowery language, but now it makes sense.” He paused and looked at his brother who nodded and took up the explanation.

“Charles was beheaded on a scaffold that had been built outside a window in the Banqueting House.  He stepped through the window onto the platform and was executed in Whitehall.”

“Bloody hell!” Greg stared at them “What time?”

John was already looking through the book.  Frowning he looked up at Sherlock. “It doesn’t say…”

“No matter,” Mycroft interrupted “We can access the building without delay.” He lifted his telephone receiver and punched in a four number extension, demanding the keys to the Banqueting House be brought to him immediately.  The voice at the end of the phone obviously said something unexpected because it triggered a rapid fire series of questions that culminated in a demand for the keys to be brought regardless.  He replaced the receiver with more force than was necessary.

“Apparently there has been a closure order on the main hall of the Banqueting House for routine maintenance.”

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John was almost beside himself with impatience as he waited with Greg and Sherlock for the custodian to arrive with the key.  As the elderly man approached them grumbling about how they would upset the delicate work being done, he almost snatched the keys from him and turned towards the door.  His hands shook as he inserted the key in the lock and turned it.

The door swung open and a horrific sight met their astounded eyes.  Harry was lying face down along a velvet covered bench, tied securely so that she was unable to move.  Above her , blade sharp and glinting in the light coming from the many lights around the room was suspended a headsman’s axe, poised to swing down and take her head off with one clean sweep. The only thing stopping the blade from swinging free was a rope and pulley mechanism, attached to a timer.

John started to move towards his sister when Sherlock grasped his arm.

“Wait, John. Slowly.  It may be booby trapped.”

Closing his eyes John took a deep breath and nodded, then opening his eyes once more he scanned the room for obvious traps. Sherlock did likewise, while Greg stepped back, taking the custodian with him and pulling his phone out to advise Mycroft.

Slowly they worked their way across the room. As soon as they were close enough Sherlock grabbed the axe and pushed it away from prone figure of Harry Watson, while her brother grasped the end of the bench and pulled it in the opposite direction.  Once he was sure his sister was out of harm’s way John made short work of the ropes holding her down and removed the filthy gag in her mouth before pulling her into his arms and holding her as she cried.

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Harry had been unable to tell them anything about her captor.  She had not really taken much notice as he pulled up beside her at the hospital with a message from her brother. As she had leaned into the car he had pulled her in and covered her head with a black hood before knocking her out with chloroform.  When she woke up she was tied to the bench.

Seeing how badly she was shaken by her ordeal, John agreed to return with her to her Surrey home and arranged for her to go into rehab at a local NHS facility.  He had arranged with Sherlock that the detective would let him know if anything happened while he was out of London for a couple of days but all remained quiet, and he returned to Baker Street late on Sunday evening to find Sherlock deep in thought over the results of his latest experiment but no less glad to see him return.

“We were lucky this time, John” he admitted “the timer on that mechanism was set to drop the blade at 2pm.  I somehow feel he will be angry that we worked it out so early.”

“You probably right.  You’ve heard nothing from him?”

Sherlock was by now standing looking out of the window onto the bleak November streets.  Something caught his attention and for a moment he was silent, then he glanced at his flatmate.

“We have a visitor.”

“Oh? Who?” John joined him and was surprised to see Mycroft’s black car parked outside.

A light knock on the door heralded the arrival not of Mycroft Holmes but of his assistant, Anthea.  In her hand was an envelope which she handed over to Sherlock.  He frowned, looking at the envelope which was unusually addressed to ‘the Assistant of Mr M Holmes’.  His frown deepened as he looked across at the petite brunette.

“I’m sorry Mr Holmes,” Anthea said quietly “but we believe your brother’s been kidnapped!”


	4. The Grand Finale

John offered Anthea a seat which she took after only the slightest hesitation, while Sherlock removed the letter and sat down to read.

“Oh how the mighty fall when their sins come back to haunt them, and as the world turns full circle you may come to repent the abstraction of the constitutional rights of one who intended no harm to your house”

He looked up from the paper “More personal yet, John. We have to assume that the ‘mighty’ refers to Mycroft, and his sin was to prevent someone from doing or saying something.”

“And that something we have to assume was not personal to the Holmes family.” John looked at Anthea. “Do you want to take us through what happened?”

Anthea nodded, looking down momentarily at her hands, her fingers twisting together in agitation.

“Around seven o’clock this evening someone attempted to throw a brick through the window of Mr Holmes’ office.  Unfortunately for them the windows have a blast-proof coating and the missile just bounced harmlessly back on to the pavement.”

“I take it my brother’s security officers have this all on CCTV?”

The long brunette curls bobbed as she nodded her head. “They saw the motorbike pull up and the pillion passenger get off and throw the brick, but weren’t able to catch them.”

For the first time in the years since they first met John started to see the cracks in the personal assistant’s cool and professional façade. He felt a twinge of pity for her as he saw she obviously cared about her boss.

Drawing a deep, calming breath she continued. “Security collected the brick and found the letter tied to it.  They tried to contact Mr Holmes but he didn’t answer his mobile.  Then, because the letter was addressed to me they sent a car to fetch me.”

“Is that standard procedure?”  Sherlock sat in his chair, his fingers drumming on the arm impatiently.

“I don’t drive, Mr Holmes, and your brother was not contactable.  We went first to the Diogenes club to see if he was there but they hadn’t seen him since yesterday, so I asked the driver to take me directly to his house.”

“And you found signs of…..?”

“A break in, a struggle, and there was a small amount of blood in the hallway. We have technicians checking to find out why the alarm system didn’t alert security.”

Sherlock stood up abruptly and started to pace. Anthea looked at John, but he just shrugged slightly and watched his flatmate stride up and down, waiting for the information he knew would soon be forthcoming.  They didn’t have long to wait.

“The answer to the riddle must lie somewhere in Mycroft’s past.  Someone whose plans he has upset.” Sherlock stopped in from of Anthea, causing her to crane her neck to look up at him.

“I need access to Mycroft’s files and records.”

“But…”

“I don’t care who you need to talk to, although I’m assuming that you are far enough up this particular food chain to order the access without any other authority.  Mycroft trusts you implicitly.” It was a statement of fact, but the words brought a glow of pleasure to the young woman’s cheeks.

“I cannot let the records out of the building, you’ll have to come to his office,” she paused and looked a little uncertainly at John “I don’t know about…”

“I’ll need John there to help as we don’t know how much time we have. We’ve only figured out part of this riddle and you and I alone cannot possibly hope to read the notes of a lifetime of Government service.” He reached for his coat and scarf, and threw John his black jacket. “I anticipate we’ll need to involve Detective Inspector Lestrade too. I’ll text him now and ask him to meet you in Whitehall.”

“Where are we going?” John asked, grabbing his phone and keys from the table and following the others out of the flat.

“Oh do keep up John!  We need to go to Mycroft’s house.” He moved across the pavement and hailed a cab as Anthea climbed back into the sleek black car.

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Mycroft woke slowly, his head pounding, his shoulders stiff and sore from being pulled back and his arms chafed by the ropes tied roughly at elbows and wrists. A crude blindfold covered his eyes and a thick rope noose hung loosely around his neck.

“My dear Mr Holmes,” the overly polite voice came from behind his right shoulder, and somewhere in Mycroft’s mind it sparked the beginnings of a memory. “I would resist the urge to struggle, it is a futile waste of energy. And besides, the more you move about, the tighter I’ll pull the noose.” 

“Am I allowed to know what I have done to earn your animosity?” Mycroft’s voice sounded hoarse and rough, and he wished he could have a drink to relieve the dryness in his mouth.

As if reading his mind his captor pressed a glass against his lips.

“Drink”

Mycroft pressed his lips together tightly.

“Drink Mr Holmes,” the voice sounded bored now, “I promise the water is neither drugged nor poisoned, I intend you to know exactly when you are going to die, to feel it, and I want you to die wishing you had done things differently.  And if we’re really lucky, you’ll die knowing that your baby brother will die with you!”

Allowing the cool liquid to trickle past his lips and down his throat, Mycroft tried desperately to remember where he knew the voice from.

“Why Sherlock?  Why not just me?”

“Ah but Mycroft – I can call you Mycroft can’t I? – how can you think I’d prepare such a treat for you and not share it with your family?  Your mother will be upset at losing her first born, of that I am sure, but to lose _both_ her sons? To lose _everything_? She will come to understand how my mother felt, and what drove my mother to…..”  He stopped suddenly, then laughed, a hollow mirthless laugh. “But no, that is too much information.  You are too dangerous to be trusted with so much information.”

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Sherlock and John got out of the cab to face a scene that could only be described as understated chaos.  Two security officers stood outside the door of the Knightsbridge house and they were being berated by an elderly couple who obviously felt they had a right to enter the property.  All four looked surprised as Sherlock swept into their midst.

“Master Sherlock!” the elderly man spoke first “What has happened?  Why won’t they let us in?”

“Where is Mr Holmes?” the lady asked.

Sherlock held a hand up, motioning them all to silence and looking pointedly at the security men.

“Let them in – we can’t discuss this on my brother’s doorstep, you run the risk of attracting unwanted attention.  Carslake, if you and Mrs C would go into the drawing room and wait for me there?” and he swept through into the house, assuming his instructions would be followed. 

John followed him in, a slightly bemused expression on his face. “Blimey,” he muttered under his breath “Talk about to the manor born!”

“Heard that John!”

“Thought you might!  What was it Harry called you? Posh Boy? Didn’t know she was such a good judge of character!”

“Carslake and his wife have worked for my brother since he moved to London, straight from university.  They are the only staff he has working here.”

“Valet and housekeeper?”

“Pretty much, although butler and cook would work equally as well.”

“Right.”

“Problem?” Sherlock frowned at his friend “Does it bother you?”

“What, that you obviously have money in your family?  Or that for some reason every time something like this comes to light I wonder why it was you ‘needed a flatmate’?” John grinned back at him “Not class conscious, Sherlock.”

“Good.” Turning to the matter in hand he moved on down the hallway and through the spacious kitchen, coming finally to what was originally the scullery. 

Another security man stood guard by the back door.  He acknowledged Sherlocks arrival and moved aside to allow him to view the kidnapper’s point of access.   Kneeling down, Sherlock examined the splintered wood around the lock. 

“This has been prised out with a chisel not broken away, they didn’t use brute force which would explain why my brother wasn’t alerted to the intruders immediately.” Stepping through the door he looked around the old fashioned yard at the back of the house, carefully working his way around the high garden wall until he found what he was looking for. Pulling himself up onto the wall he called John over.

“Here.” He pointed to the scuffed brickwork. “They climbed over here.  Whoever planned this was clever, there is no mud or loose gravel to leave footprints in, and this section of wall,” here he turned and pointed towards the house “cannot be seen from any of the family rooms.”

“I’m assuming the Carslakes regularly go out on a Sunday afternoon?”

“Yes, they visit their daughter, the routine only changes if our mother comes to town. Whoever did this knew they wouldn’t be seen.” Jumping down from the wall he walked back to the house, texting as he went. “Anthea can get a team in here to affect repairs as soon as we’re finished.”

“But what about….?”

“No fingerprints, John.  No footprints. I don’t imagine Scotland Yard can do any better than us, so it would be a waste of their time.”

As they moved back through the hall he paused at the open study door, looking at the wreckage that had been caused when the intruders had burst into the room and manhandled his brother out of the house.  An overturned side table lay in the middle of the floor, a smashed crystal decanter and whiskey glass lay beside it, the smell of the spilt spirit overpowering.  Again, there were no obvious clues as to the identity of the culprits, although Sherlock was sure there were at least two of them, possibly three.  For all his indolence Mycroft would not have been taken without a fight.

Once again retracing their steps towards the front of the house they found the blood in the hall.  It was, as Anthea had said, just a small amount, about head height (for Mycroft) on the wall, as if he had been slammed against it. Sherlock pulled out his magnifying glass and examined it carefully, but said nothing, choosing to file any thoughts he had about it away for later consideration.

In the drawing room Carslake and his wife were perched uncomfortably on the edge of a luxurious sofa, unease in every line of their bodies.  Sitting down opposite them Sherlock briefly explained what had happened.

“The house security is compromised,” he continued, and John was astounded at how gently he was treating the couple. “I think we ought to find you somewhere to stay, at least for tonight.”

“But Master Sherlock, what about Mr Holmes?”

“Don’t worry about my brother, Mrs C, we’re doing everything we can to find him.  In the meantime you won’t be helping him if you work yourself into the ground worrying.”

“I understand you have a daughter that you visit,” John looked at the couple, seeing the distress clearly in their faces. “Would you be able to stay with her?”

Sherlock nodded. “It would make more sense than to pack you off to a hotel. You’ll feel better staying with family, if you can.”

Casting a brief look at his wife Carslake pulled a Blackberry from his pocket and dialled a number explaining as he did so that he was ringing his daughter to let her know they were on their way back and to make sure it would be acceptable.

John leaned forward a put a hand on the housekeeper’s arm. “Do you want me to help you pack an overnight bag?”

“Oh no, sir!” The lady looked shocked that he should suggest such a thing. “I’ll go do it now.”

Smirking slightly at his friend Sherlock stood up and went to speak to the two security men still guarding the front door.  A few well-chosen words later and one of them accompanied the housekeeper to the staff quarters as she went to pack. When he returned to the room Carslake was on his feet, putting his mobile back into his pocket.

“My daughter is happy to put us up, Sir, if you are sure there is nothing we can do to help?”

“No, we’ll handle it from here Carslake.  Once your bags are packed one of the security men will escort you to your daughter’s home. Don’t worry, as soon as we have Mycroft safe we will let you know.” Sherlock reassured the man, before motioning John to follow him back to the study.

They finished their examination of Mycroft’s home shortly afterwards, and as they left to find transport back to Whitehall the carpenters locksmiths and cleaners were already on site.

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Greg Lestrade looked at the pile of files in front of him.  It was only small compared to the number of files that were laid out at the other end of the conference table, but it was daunting none the less.  Reaching for his coffee cup he took a sip of the rich, smooth drink before picking up the first of the manila wallets.

“What exactly am I looking for?” he asked as Anthea took a seat a little way along the table and picked up her own first file.

“ I think we’re looking for any incident where Mr Holmes has prevented someone from doing or saying something,” she smiled slightly at Lestrades comically wide-eyed look, “and where it has possibly resulted in that person receiving a criminal record, or a similar black mark against their name.”

“I imagine that’s a lot of people then.”

She nodded and opened the file in front of her.  Greg followed her example. 

They hadn’t made much of a dent in the files when they were joined by John and Sherlock, the latter flinging his coat over the back of a chair and taking his seat at the head of the table.  Greg and John shared a look that spoke volumes but Sherlock chose to ignore it – if indeed he had noticed it – instead he updated them on everything they had discovered at his brother’s home.

“But no prints?  Nothing at all to give you a clue? These guys must be bloody good!” Greg frowned at the consulting detective. “How do you know they haven’t killed him already?”

“Because if they had just wanted to kill him they’d have done it at the house.  They want me to know they’ve got my brother, I assume if they want him dead they want me dead too, or why go to the trouble of so many elaborate riddles?  Just to play games with me?  I think not.  It is likely the first three were to test me, to see how quickly I solved the puzzles.” Running his hands through his unruly curls he glanced at the faces around the table. “And I believe this is why the latest riddle is so vague.  No clue to the time, and no obvious historical reference either.”

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 The footsteps had faded as if down a long stone corridor.  Mycroft sniffed the air, trying to find a scent that would give him a clue to where he was, but all he could smell was a musty dampness that nicely complimented the all-enveloping cold that seeped into his bones through the casual trousers, shirt and cashmere sweater that he wore.

When he could no longer hear the footsteps he tried to get rid of his blindfold by rubbing the side of his head against his shoulder, twisting to get more pressure onto the rough cloth.  He was concentrating so hard on the task in hand that he failed to notice his captor’s return until he was jerked forcefully backwards in the chair, the noose tightening on his throat as it was used to pull his head back.

“Dear me, Mycroft,” again that familiar voice, but this time there was something more, a menace that had been restrained in their previous conversation was now rearing its ugly head and making its presence felt.  If Mycroft had been any less of a man he would have felt a fear that was colder than the prison he was trapped in, but he hadn’t risen to his position in the British Government by being meek and spineless.  He ignored the viciousness of his captor’s voice and actions, and sat perfectly still, waiting for the next threat. He felt the hot breath close to his ear seconds before it came. “Maybe you would prefer your brother to find your bloody and beaten remains?  His last act on this earth can be to cry over your dead body.  Is that what you’d prefer?”

Mycroft relaxed in his chair and allowed himself a small smile.

“What?  You find that funny do you?”

Suddenly Mycroft’s head was snapped backwards as a hand connected with his face, and he tasted blood as his teeth cut into the inside of his cheek, but as he shook his head to clear it he chuckled and said “You really have no idea about my family have you?  My brother hates me, I doubt he’s even bothered to lift a finger to find out what has happened to me – I am assuming of course that you have sent him a letter?”

Another blow sent him reeling again in his chair.

“Don’t lie to me Mr Lah-di-dah Holmes! You think you’re so much better than anyone else, that you can walk all over anyone that stands in the way of you or your fake detective brother!  Tell me, how much did it cost you to fix his reputation?  You know and I know that the charge of being a fraud and a fake was true! You fixed it for him yet you couldn’t forgive me for an error of judgement! You ruined my life, my career and you tainted the reputation of my family!” he was breathing heavily now, his anger almost tangible in the cold damp atmosphere.

Suddenly he lashed out a third time, knocking his prisoner sideways and leaving him hanging by the noose around his neck as the chair tipped over. Slowly the rope tightened, and as it cut off his oxygen Mycroft struggled desperately to breathe, to not pass out, but gradually the blackness overcame him and the last sound he heard was his captor’s hysterical laughter echoing all around him.

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After four hours of reading through Mycroft’s records they had barely scratched the surface of his government service.  Both John and Greg had had to remind themselves that this was no time to sit and wonder at the power of the man who they both thought of as the embodiment British Government. 

The task before them looked impossible. Sherlock was becoming frustrated at the amount of obviously unrelated information they were ploughing through, even though his logical brain was telling him there was no other way.

As she passed behind Sherlock’s chair with a tray of hot drinks and sandwiches Anthea she glanced down at the letter that he had left beside him on the table.  Putting the tray down she picked it up, reading the words over again.  The three men in the room stopped what they were doing to look at her. Anthea stood, her lips moving slightly, a frown creasing her forehead.

“What?” Sherlock interrupted her silent reading. “What have you remembered?”

“No, not remembered exactly…” the frown deepened. “It’s just this wording – the abstraction of constitutional rights – there’s something….”

Sherlock leapt to his feet and grasped her arms.

“Think!” he demanded. “My brother’s life may depend on you remembering…”

“Alright Sherlock, just calm down.” John stood and walked around the table until he stood just behind Mycroft’s assistant. “Let her be.”

“John…”

“No, Sherlock.” John led Anthea back to her chair and handed her a mug of coffee. “Okay?”

Anthea nodded, taking a sip of the hot liquid before looking up at the consulting detective with wide worried eyes.

“There’s just something about the wording, I don’t know, a double meaning or….” She stopped and put her drink down, then started shuffling through the files she had already read.  “There was something here…..yes! That’s the one!” Grasping a file she opened it and flicked through the papers inside.    Standing behind her the three men seemed to be holding their breath. 

With a triumphant cry Anthea read out loud a section of a report. “He was led from the dock and taken into custody.  As he went he shouted abuse at the judge and jury, accusing them of taking away his constitutional right of free speech!”

Sherlock snatched the file away from her, threw himself into the nearest vacant chair and started to read.

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Consciousness returned slowly to Mycroft’s brain, and he wondered for a minute why his throat felt so very sore. Opening his eyes he realised that the blindfold had been removed, and in the dim light he could see he was in a cellar of sorts, possibly a wine cellar judging by the arched entrances to the various recesses within his limited view. A noise behind him warned of the approach of his captor and he tensed, waiting for the next assault.

“Time you learned just who is pulling your strings now, Mycroft Holmes!”  the name was spat as if distasteful, and with a jerk the chair was turned so that the two men were now face to face. 

Mycroft looked up into eyes that were almost black. The face, once handsome, was a twisted mask of hatred.  It took less than a minute for his memory to call forth the name.

“Andrew Fennerton.”

“Why, it’s kind of you to remember me Mr Holmes,”

Mycroft nodded, rapidly calling up the details of their acquaintance. “You were a junior politician, working your way up the ladder, following in your father’s footsteps.”

“And I would have made it to the top!  I could have been Prime Minister, if you hadn’t meddled in affairs that were none of your concern!”

“Of course they were my concern.” came Mycroft’s spirited reply. “You were known to be speaking out against our political system, speaking out at rallies and meetings attended by dangerous activists…..”

“No! They were like minded individuals, they could see what I could see, that the system was old, outmoded, it needed to change!”

 As he listened to Fennerton Mycroft glanced over the man’s shoulder and was shocked at what he saw.  Stacked behind him was enough Semtex to take down a building twice the size of the Old Bailey, and Mycroft started to wonder just where he was.  This couldn’t be a wine cellar, there would be no point it up, so maybe he was under the Royal Courts, or maybe his office in Whitehall?  Closing his eyes he found himself hoping on the one hand that his brother would find him and stop this atrocity before innocent people were killed, and on the other hand that he wouldn’t be anywhere near this hell-hole when the Semtex was detonated.

Fennerton must have read his thoughts because he leaned in, his face barely an inch from Mycroft’s, and he whispered viciously “If baby brother doesn’t guess where you are I may have to send him another clue! We wouldn’t want him to miss this party now would we?”  He took a step back and looked down at his prisoner.  “You haven’t asked why.  Don’t you want to know?”

“I imagine it’s because you were sent to prison.  You were consorting with known criminals, Fennerton, you were giving information to people with proven terrorist links.  Your political career was in doubt the minute you attended those meetings, those rallies.  Did you really believe..”

“Yes, I believed, I knew we could make a better world here in England!  Only you accused my friends of terrorism, you accused me of treason.  I was only speaking the truth!” A new and frightening madness glinted in his eyes as he continued “My father lost his seat in Parliament, disgraced by your accusations.  My mother couldn’t stand the shame, and she committed suicide.  That sweet, gentle woman was broken by YOU!”

Breathing heavily Fennerton paced up and down before returning to stand over Mycroft.

“My father died of shame, the disgrace and mother’s suicide were too much for his heart.  My younger brother had to leave Kimbolton. Even if he’d still had the funds for his school fees they would have asked him to leave – they couldn’t bear the stain on their reputation – and do you know where he is now? DO YOU? No, and I don’t suppose you care do you, that your actions have turned my brother into a burned out junkie, living out the rest of his days in an institution.”

Mycroft took a deep breath and willing his voice to remain steady he asked the question that he was certain he already knew the answer to.

“Where are we Andrew?”

“Haven’t you guessed? We’re in the one place you denied me access to. A place I used to visit with my father as I grew up.  A place that could have made my family’s name great….my dear Mycroft, welcome to the Houses of Parliament!

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Mycroft’s office had become a hive of activity once Sherlock had solved the riddle.  The last piece to fall into place, the ‘world turning full circle’ could only mean Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament.  The full force of Mycroft’s power was turned to getting Sherlock, John and Greg into that building to search without alerting the kidnapper and risking injury to the captive.

The table had been cleared of files and coffee cups and was replaced by a plan of the Houses of Parliament. Studying the various levels, the multitude of entrances and exits, the three men tried to work out where Mycroft was likely to be kept prisoners.  Tapping his fingers on the table John stared at the drawings in front of him.

Sherlock paused and watched him for a moment before asking “What have you thought of?”

John pointed to the lower levels of the building. “Fennerton’s other puzzles have all been related to time or history.” He glanced at his flatmate.  “If he’s following the same pattern then it’s obvious where he is. I only hope he hasn’t got hold of any gunpowder.”

“You do realise today is November 5th?” Greg folded his arms across his chest and leaned sideways against the table. “That can’t be a co-incidence – can it?”

“Unlikely.” Sherlock agreed, steepling his fingers and looking at the possible entrances to the cellar area. “What do you think John? Two entrances, we could take one each.”

“Now hang on,” Greg exclaimed “You two can’t just go dashing off…”

“Greg,” John reasoned calmly “We’d be foolish not to check the rest of the building.  You know what to do, what we’re looking for.  If you lead the search in the upper rooms…”

Sherlock and John could see Greg looking for a flaw in John’s logic, but he had to admit that although all indications pointed to the cellars the results could be deadly if they had misjudged their man.  Finally he nodded and Sherlock swiftly arranged for a couple of Mycroft’s security men to accompany him to the Parliament building to meet with the police detail assigned to patrol there.

Once he was gone Sherlock nodded his thanks to John and walked round his brother’s desk.  Sitting in his brother’s chair he reached under the central section of the desk, his long fingers feeling along a ridge in the woodwork until he encountered a small switch. He pressed it, and a small compartment opened up revealing a gun. Removing it he checked the clip – it was full – and slipped it into his pocket. John patted his pocket to reassure himself that own his gun was there, then armed and ready the two men headed out and into Whitehall.

Sherlock took the door nearest Westminster Bridge, waiting a few minutes to allow John time to access the entrance at the far end of the building. Moving smoothly and quietly he slipped in through the door and descended the stairs.

There was very little light, and sound echoed and travelled through the arched passageways. Sherlock stilled and controlled his breathing, listening hard.  In the distance he could hear a raised voice, and he moved carefully towards the sound. As he got closer to the voice the light in the tunnels increased, making it easier to see where he was going.

Stepping through an archway and into what appeared to be a central chamber Sherlock’s heart froze.  Mycroft was sitting in the middle of the room, his face a bloody mess, and behind him the man they had come to think of as the quiz master, holding the rope in his hand, pulling it just enough to tighten the noose around the older Holmes’ neck.

Pulling the gun from his pocket he aimed at Fennerton’s head. Fennerton just smiled and held up his other hand.  In that hand he held a switch.  Stepping slightly to one side he allowed Sherlock to see the packages of Semtex piled high just feet away from them.  A single wire ran from the switch in his hand through a battery pack and into a detonator pushed deep into the explosives.

“Look who’s come to pay you a visit Mycroft!” Fennerton’s voice was high pitched, bordering on hysterical. “Your baby brother! Aren’t you glad to see him?”

Mycroft shook his head slightly, trying to clear the blood from his eyes, but said nothing.

“What, no words of welcome?” this was accompanied by a sharp tug on the rope.  Mycroft choked but remained silent.

“What do you want with us Fennerton?” Sherlock kept his voice and his aim steady.

“I want your life!” came the screamed reply  “Your brother destroyed my family! I will destroy yours!”

“And how do you imagine you can get out of here?  There are police everywhere upstairs, if you detonate that explosive you will kill us all – yourself included.  Is that part of your plan?” he smirked “Seems a bit flawed to me.”

Fennerton was beside himself, his jaw working furiously as he tried to articulate his anger.  Mycroft by now had managed to open his eyes, and he watched his brother dispassionately, trusting him to do what needed to be done.

A shadow moved behind Fennerton’s left shoulder, and Sherlock breathed a silent sigh of relief – now they had a chance!  Changing tack slightly he looked down at his brother. 

“Bit of a mess you’ve got yourself into, brother dear.”

Mycroft would have smiled if his face hadn’t been quite so swollen and bloody, so he made do with a slight shrug of one shoulder.

“They made quite a mess of your house too.” His eyes flicked up at the man holding his brother hostage. “How did you get past the security system?”

Fennerton laughed. “I learned all about electronics in prison, it was a simple matter to by-pass the alarm switches!”

“Ah, and that is how you learned how to rig electronic detonation switches for bombs.”  He lowered his gun, causing Fennerton to sharpen his attention on the man in front of him. 

It was all the distraction John needed – he flung himself forward, sliding along the floor towards the battery pack. At the same moment that Fennerton realised what was happening and pressed the button, John wrenched the wires from the battery, and Sherlock raised his gun again and fired, the shot taking the kidnapper in the shoulder, just high enough to miss his lung but enough to incapacitate him.

The next few moments were a blur.  John ensured Fennerton was going to live and then tied him with the rope that Sherlock had pulled off his brother.  Mycroft collapsed forward into his brother’s arms, relief and shock warring to control his normally cool mind. 

Pulling out his mobile John called Greg and arranged for police, paramedics and, more importantly the army to come and help clean up the mess.  He gave Mycroft a brief medical check and was able to reassure Sherlock that his brother’s injuries looked worse than they were, but when the patient tried to get to his feet he put on his sternest ‘I’m a doctor’ face and insisted he go to the hospital.  No amount of cajoling would change his mind, and eventually, when the paramedics arrived, he was persuaded to go quietly.

Greg Lestrade was busy organising the police escort for the injured prisoner, as well as ensuring the building was secured until the bomb disposal team arrived. Giving him a tired wave, Sherlock and John left the building, walking out into the pre-dawn London chill.

As they walked away across Parliament Square John glanced at his friend and said “You do realise the original Gunpowder Plot was intended to kill a King?” 

“I know,” Sherlock nodded, adding after a slight pause “there will be no bearing with Mycroft now!”

 


End file.
